


Once In a Blue Moon

by Clair de Lune (clair_de_lune)



Series: Blue Moon Nights [1]
Category: Prison Break
Genre: Alternate Ending, Crossdressing, F/M, M/M, Post-Series, Sibling Incest, Threesome - F/M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-17
Updated: 2016-01-17
Packaged: 2018-05-14 13:25:58
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5745532
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/clair_de_lune/pseuds/Clair%20de%20Lune
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>You do weird, crazy things on blue moon nights. You talk your wife into <i>experimenting</i>, become caught at your own game and end up enjoying this thoroughly.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Once In a Blue Moon

**Author's Note:**

> I’m going to cowardly blame this on Foxriverinmate who suggested for me to “get Michael into a dress and write ‘femslash’ with a twisted kink”. I did my best. My worst. Whatever ;) Many thanks to Mystressxoxo for the beta. Any remaning mistakes are mine.  
> The Michael/Lincoln aspect is relatively tame, but you still may want to proceed with caution if this pairing is not your cup of tea.  
> I know second person voice isn't to everyone's liking, but somehow, it worked for this series of stories -- well, in my opinion at least ;)

You do weird, crazy things on blue moon nights. You talk your wife into _experimenting_ , become caught at your own game and end up enjoying this thoroughly. It has to be because of the light, gleaming silver, and the uncommonness of the occurrence. The light confers everything a surreal glow, and the rarity is like a carte blanche; it’s not as if you’re going to do this every week, right? Once in a while, you indulge yourself.

You let her – you asked her, so you can do nothing but play along when she maliciously offers to take things further – shave you. Legs, armpits and chest, and... yes, _here_ too, holding your breath because even though Sara is a doctor and has a steady hand, it’s a piece of equipment you’re quite fond of. The comforting thing is she likes it, at least as much as you do, and is so careful around it.

When she’s done with the shaving kit, she sets it aside and makes you sit in front of her. You close your eyes as she pampers you, applying lotion and make up and perfume on you, indulgently shaking your head when she tells you that she’d always wanted to play with a real size Barbie. You don’t point out you’re actually a Ken, not when, thanks to her skilful touch, you end up with dark rimmed eyes and long, thick lashes, pinkish cheekbones and plump lips glistening with lipstick. Not when you’re about to slip into a sleek dress matching Sara’s, completed with high heels and a black wig. Not when you look at yourself in the mirror and, humility be damned, some intriguing hermaphrodite stares back at you. Not male, not female, but both at the same time, dolled up as you’d never dreamed to be. Best of both worlds for a deliciously ambiguous result. Under your dress, silk panties hug and stroke you, and the luxurious waist cincher Sara laced up tight pinches your middle section. You enjoy it. Enjoy not being totally yourself and not totally someone else, enjoy that people will have to do a double take and, even then, won’t be sure of what they will have seen. You’ve been hiding things to everyone for your whole life; this is just another, more obvious step.

Sara and you sit in a peaceful and complicit silence while she drives to a cozy restaurant. Her hand resting on your waist as the two of you stroll towards your table, eliciting a few surprised or glaring stares, makes you smile secretly. It’s not that you relish provocation and scandal, but on some occasions, with the right person standing next to you and holding your hand... maybe a little bit.

You almost lose it when you take your place in front of your brother, though. He chokes on his wine, coughing hard enough for the precious scarlet liquid to dribble out from his nostrils. When he can breathe and speak again, he goggles and eventually tells you, slightly frightened, that you make a hell of a hot woman. Because he’s gallant, and because it’s the damn truth, he feels compelled to add, “You’re not bad either, Sara.”

Lincoln is right: you are two awesomely pretty women tonight, and he’s one lucky bastard. Then, Sara pats your thigh under the table, her fingers curling on the strong muscle. Her hand so high on your leg reminds you that the dress doesn’t make the woman and that some of your reactions are still embarrassingly masculine; you’re left wriggling in your seat for a couple of minutes under her amused eyes and Lincoln’s scrutinizing glance.

The dinner is quite something. The ride back, the three of you all in the same car with Sara driving, is interesting too. Lincoln is never very chatty, but tonight, he observes a pensive silence as his eyes go back and forth between Sara and you.

The ‘last drink’ back at home is when things dive deeper into surreality. You start to actually understand why Sara took you so seriously when you dared to bring up the kink, why she was so eager to humor you: she doesn’t seem able to keep her hands off you. The lingering touch on your waist at the restaurant was one thing. The way her hands brush your shoulders, slide on your hips or swiftly graze your buttocks is a different story: it’s possessive, teasing and promising; you plan to collect sooner than later. When she hands you your drink and meets your eyes, she can’t help it anymore and lightly kisses your lips, whispering, “I’ve wondered a few times... how it would be with a woman...” Since, despite the fact that Lincoln is sitting on the couch a few feet away, you don’t back off, she cranes her neck and kisses you again, this time more forcefully. You’re used to makeup covering her lips, not yours, and blink when your pink lipstick melts into her darker one. The sticky substance smudges a bit on both of your skin, but you don’t care. Sara is taking control, prying your mouth open with her tongue, and you subside to her lead. You can’t help thinking of the men who fantasize so hard about watching their wife or girlfriend making out with another woman; you chuckle because you’re this man and that other woman at the same time.

You don’t have the time to realize how it happened, but somehow, Lincoln has moved forward, Sara has moved backward, walking you with her, and the three of you connect in the middle of the living room. The room is barely lit, only a small lamp and the silver moon light pouring through the large windows. It definitely adds a dreamlike quality to the situation; you feel as though none of you has a real consistency, as though everything, everyone is so fluid and smooth. Surely, this is why you fit so well, so intimately between the two of them and bask in their contact. Lincoln grumbles something about the fact that watching the two of you making out is a lot sexier than it should be, before he leans in, hands on Sara’s hands holding your hips. For a split second, you think he’s going to kiss her, and you’re torn between protesting and making sure not to miss a moment of it. But instead, he lifts up the long black locks that wander on your shoulders and his lips land on the curve of your neck. He sucks on your flesh so gently, as though he is afraid to hurt you, as though your skin is as delicate as a woman’s, and trails his tongue along the line of your jaw.

With a small pant, you let your head loll back against the side of his face, baring your throat to Sara’s lips. You’re not really you tonight, so it doesn’t matter as much as it should that it’s your brother’s mouth licking your neck, his fingers sliding up your hips and on your torso. Sara joins him in his caresses, her hands all over you as she palms the flat span of your chest and the round curve of your butt. Their hands meet on your waist, their mouths on your collarbone. Sara’s round breasts pressed into your arm, Lincoln’s erection nestled against your buttocks, you revel in their arousal. You’re quite positive they are kissing this time, and you shimmy provocatively. The friction makes them gasp. It redirects their focus on you, and Lincoln, tearing his mouth from Sara’s, murmurs with amusement, “Attention whore much, babe?”

They work together to unbutton your dress and pull it down your shoulders and hips. Linc curses softly when the fabric slides and bundles around you feet, uncovering the black leather stilettos, silk lingerie and lace waist cincher you wear underneath. His sarcastic yet affectionate, “Pretty girl,” makes you smile, maybe has you sway a bit and snuggle against his chest. You sigh and close your eyes as Sara and Lincoln keep stroking you, petting any expanse of skin they can reach, so tender and careful you wonder if they want to make you feel like a dainty woman or a darn porcelain doll. Sara licks and mouths your upper body thoroughly, flicking her tongue against your nipples until they harden under her lips. Neither she nor Linc seem to be willing to take things further, though, so you hook your fingers in the flimsy material of your underwear – and you are stopped on your tracks by Sara grabbing your wrists.

“You keep the panties and shoes on,” she orders against your cheek before looking up at you through her eyelashes and adding a bit more nicely, “Please?”

You can feel Lincoln taking a step back to ogle shamelessly your backside. “And the belt thing, too,” he says, fingering the black lace that covers you from ribs to hips. He casts a glance at Sara and explains unapologetically, “This stuff is hot.” You kind of agree: anything making them react this way – hot and bothered, considerate and teasing – has to be damn hot.

Sara kisses you on the lips again before starting to walk backward towards the sofa. You feel the loss – the loss of heat, of contact, of affection – so bad it physically hurts. You want to follow her, touch her, but Lincoln wraps his arms around you and keeps you right where you are, flush against him. You have to watch her from a few feet as she settles in the middle of the couch and edges her dress up her legs – long, shapely legs uncovered and put on display for your appreciation. You swallow hard; you can never get enough of her.

“You are a woman,” Lincoln reminds you, whispering into your ear, his breath hot and moist on your face. One of his hands glides down your stomach. You try to lean into his touch, try to grind against his fingers, desperate for a contact, but he doesn’t allow it and keeps the caress superficial. Tomorrow, when you’re yourself again, you’ll be grateful for this, that he goes further than he should, but not _too_ far. But tonight, you moan with need and cant your hips.

“You are a woman,” Lincoln says again. He gently cups you through the satin of your underwear; you’re so painfully hard already that the light squeeze makes you squirm in his arms. “You’re not using this tonight to pleasure her. You understand me?”

With her eyes locked on yours, Sara licks her lips and fumbles with the hem of her dress. Your heart leaps in your chest. “Linc...”

“You have imagination, fingers and a mouth. Put them to good use.”

“What if...?”

You don’t finish this question, it’s useless. They’re exchanging a glance, and you can guess that the half smile tugging at the corner of Sara’s mouth is mirroring on Lincoln’s face. You are not surprised by the answer falling from your brother’s lips.

“Then I guess you’d just have to watch her fuck me.”

You’re almost sure they wouldn’t actually go there, but there are risks you’re not willing to take. You bring Lincoln’s hand to your face and brush a kiss over his knuckles, which, you are pleased to notice, are white and tight with tension. Fair enough. Slowly, staggering on your high heels for the first time, you move towards Sara and kneel between her legs. There will be no more teasing, no more foreplay – the three of you already had plenty of this tonight. You bend your shoulders and push your hips up just a little bit, though, offering Sara a nice view of the dip of your back and the swell of your bottom. She reaches out, not aiming for anything in particular, just wanting to touch you.

The heat of Lincoln’s massive body seeps into you as your brother sits on his haunches; he’s so close to you that the pointy heel of your shoe digs into his clad thigh. You can’t help shivering when he murmurs, “Make it good for her, babe.” The velvety voice he’s using on you is without contest the one he brings into play when he sweet-talks women. The warm hand he slides up your back, from the waist cincher he seems so fond of to the nape of your neck, is as carefully rough as the one he uses to stroke and fondle women. You writhe under the caress and let him shove your head between Sara’s thighs.

Opening Sara wider, your hands on the inside of her knees, you press your nose and then your lips on the soggy, musk-scented silk of her underwear and breathe in her. You linger here for a few seconds, tasting her and letting her shift and rut against your mouth. When you finally pull aside the diaphanous piece of clothing, she whines above you, a high pitched sound that twists your guts. You look up and end up with your face lovingly cradled between her hands.

“You’re ten fantasies rolled into one,” she tells you with a smile. She releases your face and digs her fingers in the black hair of the wig, obviously enjoying the way it spreads across her lower stomach and thighs. She brings you impossibly closer, and her head tips back and rests against the couch. You rub your cheek against her, your close shaved skin almost as smooth as hers, enhancing the illusion that it can be a woman as much as a man who’s about to kiss, lick and tongue into her.

Lincoln’s harsh breathing as he hovers over the two of you to get an eyeful suggests that he quite enjoys the situation. If needed, Sara’s hands clenching your shoulders and her sharp cries prove that you live up to her fantasies. The way you’re leaking and making a mess of your panties as you feast on her definitely indicates that _she_ lives up to your fantasies, and beyond.

* * * * *

The three of you have collapsed on the couch, a mess of arms, legs and half undone clothes, lazing in an iridescent light that softens Lincoln’s features and kisses Sara’s delicate face and body. You sink in the cushions and doze, nestled between them, pressed flush against Sara. Linc’s hand is resting on the lace of the waist cincher; Sara’s is deep in the curls of the wig, her lips brushing yours.

You do weird, crazy things on blue moon nights. You sometimes wonder whether this is a good or a bad thing that the phenomenon happens so rarely.

-End-


End file.
